


Deep Space None

by HansBlanke



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Betaed, Damar is human, Episode: s06e13 Far Beyond the Stars, Episode: s07e02 Shadows and Symbols, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, In-Jokes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Rebecca isn't Sullivan in this case, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 07:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HansBlanke/pseuds/HansBlanke
Summary: Maybe Benny Russell didn't publish his novel, but it doesn't mean it had no impact on the world.
Relationships: Michael Eddington/Rebecca Sullivan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First thing you need to know, the triumvirate doesn't belong to me. They are a Tumblr trio I was lucky to come across: @eddington-suggestions, @sloan-suggestion and @damar-suggestion. Therefore the whole thing is a huge in-joke and should be treated accordingly.  
Beta'd by @foughfaugh, to who I'm very grateful for the help and all the kind words. Thank you.  
While I tried my best to keep the reality of the text as similar to what the 1950s actually looked like, I didn't do the same about the language. Just warning.  
More specific notes will be added to the chapters they're related to.

If someone was to joke: _ what can three men talk about together? _this trio would ruin the joke, no matter what the answer was. Their conversations were as different as the men themselves, and the most predictable topics could emerge and develop in quite an unpredictable way.

The moment Michael opened his mouth to say something innocent about his girlfriend, he knew better than to be surprised when Karl, his younger friend, dropped his head on the table, making quite a loud sound, and demanded with his usual ex-soldier's rude frankness, "Wake me up when you're finished talking about her."

"Sweet dreams," said the third one, Luther, narrowing his pale eyes. "Is that the same activist lady you serenaded last month?"

Michael looked at him in surprise. "We've been going out for two years. What makes you think it could be someone else?"

Luther shrugged. "Experience. When women begin to demand anything, I quit."

"A brief history of your divorce?" Karl opened an eye.

"Exactly. Sleep on, love, he's far from finishing."

"I couldn't quit, even if I wanted to." Michael beamed at him. "She's all my fancy painted her... Oh, and besides, she says she's building a better future for her daughters. With her, the future is in safe hands, so she'll need daughters soon."

"Have I ever mentioned," Luther said in a very confidential tone, "that I have daughters? Two beautiful, _ normal _daughters?"

"I'm glad for you, friend. I know you mean well, but it's, ah, no use. There's no other like her."

"Thank God," Luther whispered loudly.

"Thank God you're doing such a poor job pretending _ you're _ not glad for _ me_."

The older man gasped in horror. "You got me. Caught me red-handed! What could have possibly given me away?"

"Let me think. The fact that it's you who keeps bringing me ideas for my bachelor party? Maybe. The fact you virtually agreed to be my best man? Hmm..."

Karl snorted. "I hope there's still room for the worst man as well."

"As far as I know, they do need a maid of honour," Luther teased. 

"They should find someone younger. I'm Michael's age; two old maids are too much for one wedding."

Michael gave Karl a dangerous look. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have it."

"Thanks," Michael said very politely. "Tell me, do you ever feel like you have too many teeth? Because I could help you with that."

"Before you do, my dear," Luther said gently, lighting his smoking pipe, "he didn't mean _ her_. Trust me."

"Sure I didn't, I wouldn't dream of saying a rude thing about her," Karl sneered. "I'm scared of her. Look at how that valkyrie walks all over you! You wait, she'll wear pants to the wedding."

"Well, as long as I don't have to wear a dress..." Michael pretended to be deep in thought. "Still, I'm not sure she will. But she did mention she might shave her head for the occasion. She likes a warrior's look—"

"Shave _ her _ head? Not yours?" Luther exhaled some smoke in a soft pretence of a laugh.

"Look at him. What's there to shave?"

"Don't you go bitching about my _ lovely _ curls, boy." Michael ran his fingers through his hair to give it more volume.

"I'm sorry to say this, but the Philistines have been there, and it does show," Luther said. "It may be time for you to try living with that."

Michael sipped his tea with great dignity. _ That's easy for you to say, _he thought. Luther was obviously older than him or Karl, but no one was making fun of his appearance. He barely had anything about him to make fun of, in fact. The small, white, very even teeth were the only special trait he had; for Michael, they bore a resemblance to a cemetery.

And that was next to all Michael knew. He felt strange. His job as a reporter demanded he paid attention to people around him; he owed more than one sensational article to that. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, of course, but he knew a thing or two about his younger friend, for example, and could easily describe him as a retired pilot, Scandinavian by birth, thirty-five to thirty-eight, and a dozen other things. He knew the man's shoe size (as a result of a very funny story Michael didn't like to think of), his address and zip code; he knew what his cat's name was and who she liked to yell at; he was perfectly aware that today Karl's coffee was three-quarters whiskey. Not that he was ever going to use that knowledge outside their little company, but it was useful within it.

As for the other man, Michael didn't even know his last name. Karl had introduced them as "Here's Michael" and "Here's Luther", and they'd only been that ever since.

While Michael was silent, the other two had had time to exchange a couple of words about Karl's superior officer. Luther, upon describing the man as "exceptionally unpleasant," met Michael's eyes with his pale gaze. "Yes? Is something wrong—do I have a stain on my jacket somewhere?"

"No. I just thought that if you ever need a pseudonym, you can pick up _ Martin _ for a last name."

The joke fell on good soil. Luther looked utterly pleased as he saluted with his glass of Michael had already forgotten what. "Why, thank you!"

Michael saluted back, hoping tea would be enough. "Here's to hope you'll never need it."

"Can I have it, then?" Karl said. "My name is too German; there's the risk _ she _ won't have me at the wedding."

Michael rolled his eyes. "She's Schmidt. Isn't _ that _German to you?"

"Luther says she's Jewish. That's different."

"Is she? And how is that different?"

Luther took the pipe out of his mouth. "German Jewish is still Jewish. You said she didn't eat cheeseburgers; has that changed?"

Michael considered briefly if he should try to drown himself in his tea. "No. She doesn't like them."

"Of course not. They're not kosher."

"They're not what?"

"Meat and dairy products don't go together."

"Becca's, what, twenty-seven?" Karl asked casually. "When my wife was twenty-seven, her worry was the constant bombing on the continent, and she was right. It's a great time to be alive if you only have to worry about what people put in their mouths, but you are crossing the line."

"What you're trying to say is, _ Let's change the topic_," Luther said very softly. "Unless you want to vent some more."

"What I'm trying to say is, _ Stop teaching him about kosher until he at least asks for that. _But fine, let's change it. Let's leave the hospital girls alone for a change. Shall we switch to hospitals? Do you know my cousin, the one with the ridiculous Slavic name?"

Michael shrugged, keeping his expression as blank as possible. "Heard of him—from you. I thought he was a psychiatrist?"

"He is. We talked last week. He told me about his new patient and we both—you and I, that is—kind of know him. Care to guess?" Karl's eyes were digging holes in Michael.

"Someone from your police department?"

"Try the other side of the barricade."

"The whole city is on the other side." Michael chuckled. "Nah. My wits are never enough for your riddles."

Karl seemed pleased with this confession and took his time to grin. "Russell, Benjamin. Male. Black. In his late forties—"

"_ Benny? _ " Michael dropped his jaw. "At your cousin's—_place? _ What happened?"

"Well—but this is impolite to Luther. After all, it's his job to keep people puzzled, not ours. Tell him a couple of words about that guy."

Michael raised an eyebrow and looked at Luther. The response he got was an absent-minded smile. "There's barely anything to tell. We worked together in a—Damn, I don't think I mentioned it before—" Of course he hadn't. He'd avoided the topic at all costs. "I used to write. Like, fiction. I had enough of reporting during the war, so I came home and decided I needed a pause and—"

He caught himself an inch from stuttering, and held up his hand, asking for a pause to regain his breath. This wouldn't do. Michael knew his friend could sarcasm people into fainting, but the knowledge hadn't been extracted from firsthand experience. He'd manage if someone started joking about his would-be-career in fiction, he really would.

Luther showed the edges of his teeth; otherwise his expression was unchanged. "Please go on."

"That's how I ended up in New York. Landed at a B-list magazine, wasted a year and a half there—"

"You're going to waste even more if you tell the story like this," Karl slipped in. "You get paid for the word count in your newspaper, not here. They were going to write something big together, and then Mikey took a French leave with all the drafts. That's the point."

"They were _ mostly _ mine, anyway!"

"I don't care, so don't shout at me. Better tell me what your ex-colleague is up to in his new lodging."

"Like I said, you're putting too much faith in me." To tell the truth, Michael still felt a little bit too shaken by the news to play the interrogation game.

"Writing."

"Writing?" he repeated stupidly.

"Mostly on walls. Jim says the guy believes he's, like, he's been sent to tell people about the future. So it's good you left that magazine—"

"We've lived to witness the second coming." _ Now _ Luther's voice was sarcastic.

Michael couldn't help a chuckle. "Sometimes I wonder if you're a fierce believer or a fierce atheist."

The older man's gaze was undecipherable. "Sometimes I wonder that myself."

Michael hummed. "Well, back to Benny. I knew he wanted to tell something, but writing on walls is an interesting way of doing that."

"You knew?" Karl was all but choking. "Been visiting Jim as well?"

"No. I have a friend back at the magazine, so I got a word when Benny was in trouble, and went to talk to his girlfriend. She said it had something to do with his book, and gave me a copy. She said it was a secret, but now I think she could be trying to make as many people as possible read it. Sounds like it could comfort a fired writer. It was good though. Better than anything he's written so far."

"The mental strain was too much, then." Karl yawned.

"What did you bring it up for? To make me confess I didn't always write reports? I can make flower crowns, too—"

"To enjoy your chameleon side. You're enemies with that Benny, but you're friends with his girlfriend—_and _ with an errand boy of the police freak who beat the hell out of him and got away with it. And with you, _ Lucy_. I wonder now if your company’s to blame for driving him nuts. Because people don't go mad because of books, not if they have balls. After all, nobody died."

Michael opened his mouth to answer, but the words were lost on their way out the moment Luther started blowing smoke rings. The man made a lot of silent contributions to their conversations, and rather successful ones, too: both Michael and Karl now stared at him, as if their brains had suddenly gone rusty. The latter, his eyes transfixed on the smoke, took out a cigarette, and snatched the pipe from Luther to light it (which was quite a time-consuming process, but Karl had always been the stubborn one). Then he puffed hard, sending a generous share of smoke towards the gentle rings hovering in mid-air, blowing them away completely. 

Luther took the pipe back and gave him a close, long look. His expression was clearly saying, _ What the hell? _ but Michael was sure it was also intrigued. He couldn't make head or tail of _ why_, though.

He cleared his throat. "Books don't usually drive people crazy, that's right. Now that I'm thinking of it, though? He had it coming. If you'd care for a tragic prequel—"

"Uh?" Karl barely looked at him.

"You won't like it, though."

"Can't remember the last time I liked something, anyway."

"Someone did die. I'm not sure who she was, his wife or his girlfriend, there weren’t a lot of details when he told me—_ Shut up and let me finish. _ Nasty story, you know. No one got punished. He moved here after that accident, thought it'd help him begin a new life or something. See for yourself if it did."

"You said yourself you weren't best pals." Karl attacked him with a smaller huff of smoke. The smell was far enough from the fine aroma of the tobacco Luther smoked. "Did he tell this to everyone who'd listen about his lost love, or did you just make that up? Because I definitely heard it somewhere."

_ In a kingdom by the sea? _ Michael dropped his eyes to glance at his friend's old wedding ring. He didn't doubt Karl hadn't taken it off once in the ten years of his widowerhood. "Who do you think I had Friday dinners with before I met you?"

Karl leaned in towards Luther and said, "He's going to hell—"

"We all are," the other man assured him.

"Shut up. He's going to hell, and he's going to make friends there, too. I love that."

"At least you're optimistic about me, thanks." Michael looked at his watch and couldn't help a smile. He stood up. "I might need a little stop on my way there, though. See you, what, next week?"

Karl shrugged. "Me, yes."

"I'd like you to stay just a moment longer, if that's possible." Luther put on his most human-like smile as he took a piece of paper out of his pocket. "I would really appreciate it if you could write this for me. I'll pay, of course."

Michael took the paper and looked at the swift handwriting. His eyes went wide. "I'm in!"

He shook Luther's hand and Karl's, too, but the latter didn't let him go at once. "You might need two stops on your way." Karl was talking more seriously than he had been the whole evening. "I'm telling you, hurry up with the ring. You're not getting any younger."

"I will, friend. I know you care."

Karl jerked his jaw, which meant a smile, and said nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael came home in an exceptionally good mood and with a fresh task in his little notebook. He felt his fingertips itch for writing like a dancer's feet itch for dancing; thoughts were beginning to buzz in his head. Every sign pointed that he was going to do something great.

He sat down at his desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in his typewriter, and cracked his knuckles.

Then he realised he had no desire to  _ work. _

He'd put the task on display; it still warmed his heart. The text he was supposed to write was big and not too simple. But what his mind was asking for  _ now _ wasn't a challenge to his wit. Something different was trying to burst out. Something—

Michael pinched his nose bridge, carefully going through the events of the day. Nothing worthy of his attention had happened in the morning. At lunch, he'd exchanged a couple of jokes with a colleague. After work, someone had stepped on his foot and the subway station had been closed. No poetry so far. Then, there'd been the smoke from Luther's pipe and Karl's cackling; then, a glimpse of Becca, his eye candy as always. She'd said she'd had to climb out of the hospital window to see him; he wondered if that was true. Not that she liked exaggerating—

He stopped, reluctant. Of course his soon-to-be-fiancée's smile was worth quite some verses (and he really should get to them one day). But it just wasn't the matter now.

_ That idea for a novel. _

No, the idea was someone else's. In fact, he'd read the novel already.

If it hadn't been for a push from Karl, Michael wouldn't have recalled "Deep Space Nine" at all.

It had been easy to  _ say _ he'd liked the novel. Those words had been like paying respect to the author—who was now known to be alive but not exactly  _ well.  _ Confessing the same to himself, however, was difficult. Had Michael wanted to, he would've found a lot of aims for criticism; as a reader, he'd found it delectable _ .  _

As an "ex-writer", he was extremely confused. A couple of minor parts were so good he felt outright jealous. They could have come to him!

Some other ones, however, were coming to him now. And Benny didn't have anything of their like.

The knock on the imaginary door in Michael's mind had been getting louder. Now, he opened the door.

He liked experiments. It could be another experiment if he wrote down his own stories. He wasn't "above" catching a couple of verses if they began to form in his inner hearing, and helping them take shape. He didn't always finish them, but he had a strict rule to always begin. Who else would write them?

There was simply no reason not to try the same with the prose.

Michael looked at his hands. They were trembling with energy ready to come alive. He moved his chair closer to the desk, and finally touched the keys of the typewriter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of making Michael write minor horror stories was inspired by <strike>Lovecraft</strike> this post:  
https://sloan-suggestion.tumblr.com/post/185204593911/favourite-myth

Even a space station with artificial “eyes” at each and every corner requires the presence of real, living guards just in case. Who knows what might happen?  
No one is supposed to be out in the corridors at night. Your job is to make sure there’s no one there indeed. You have a weapon on your hip and a scanner in your hand; it’s not wise to rely solely on your eyes while the lights are dimmed for the night, and when there are no people to thump and talk, the silence is alive with many suspicious noises.  
There’s a stir of movement far away from you as something glitches on and off the screen of your scanner. An animal, a shadowy figure, or just technical trouble? You’re not sure where a living creature would come from, but you’re supposed to find out. It’s just a couple of turns away. You hear faint footsteps as you come closer and it makes you walk faster—  
But you’re just not ready to turn the corner and see absolutely nothing.  
That is, the corridor is still there. There is enough light to spot anything unusual, and no detail would escape your scrutiny; the scanner takes excellent care of shapeshifters. But there’s simply no one there. The device shows the area is clearer than the sky on a sunny day. The glitch is gone.  
Besides, if someone was there, they wouldn’t be able to hide. There are no doors. You take step after step, examining the area you know so well. There's just no escape.  
(The wording doesn’t sound comfortable, but you dismiss the thought.)  
You’re a rational being. The footsteps could have been your own; this place doesn’t echo a lot, but you’re more likely to notice things when you’re expecting them. You were expecting a sound, subconsciously, so you heard it. It all adds up well enough, same as the fact that you’re suddenly aware of the static noise coming from your communicator and of the little movements you seem to see out of the corner of your eye. There is nothing able to move, though; it must be the light. Or was it something else on your scanner, glitching in again while you were not looking? Now you wish you were.  
There’s clearly nothing more to do here, with no one else for you to catch. And there are other places waiting for your attention. You should move on.  
However, you don’t have time to take a single step before you hear those footsteps again.  
This time, _right behind your back._


	4. Chapter 4

You wake up, very slowly, after what you’d call a poor rest, and you know immediately that something is very wrong. Your brain is trying to block it out, but the ancient instincts of self-preservation are not made to deal with anything like it. Just like the _ fight or flight _reaction is useless in an unnatural environment, and won’t help you if your quarters begin to depressurise.

The barriers of your mind are not enough to hold this off. Was it a bad dream you just had? Smells you’ve never felt and sounds you’ve never heard ooze into your mind, dripping in like blood through a soaked bandage. They make you feel nauseous in no time, and the harder you try to avert your attention from the newly acquired nightmare, the more, in fact, you think about it. It’s very simple, a lot like falling asleep and trying not to disturb the thin dream wrapping around you, or like sleeping and suddenly becoming aware that nothing around you is real. 

Neither of the situations ever obeyed your wish. This one doesn’t, either. You grow tired of fighting—

The vision of an alien head lying next to your bed is too real to ignore.

You open your eyes in horror. Of course there’s nothing there; your room looks the way it should, which _ doesn’t _ stop your imagination from playing dirty tricks on you. They only grow worse.

You know exactly what you’ll see if you close your eyes again, and that’s exactly the reason why you don’t even blink. There will be a room you’ve never seen or dreamt of, but you can describe it in detail. In the room, there will be people you’ve never met, and you’re fairly certain you don’t even know their race.

Still, there’s no doubt they’re all very much dead. Some look more or less whole, others are dismembered, and a few look more like piles of flesh. 

It takes you a very long moment to realise it wasn’t you who killed them and took the incredible trouble to take so many lives and mutilate those bodies beyond recognition and—Well, it wasn’t you. But the memory _ belongs _ to whoever did this, and you still feel like this is all your “handiwork”. You can feel blood covering your hands and hear the wet sound of flesh being ripped. Your disgust mixes with sick joy—and it's yours now, too.

You slowly realise what happened, or rather, clutch at the first explanation, other than that you’re mad. You might have heard those barely believable tales about stolen memories. But you’ve never made an effort to think where exactly the mental images could go, once extracted from the owner’s head. Never until now have you believed in anything like this, not that it would have changed anything.

In the glorious era of interplanetary unity, there are way too many races to keep track of them, let alone their special talents. The ability to read other people’s minds, for instance, is an obvious and welcomed part of some cultures, but in others, it’s not something outsiders are widely aware of.

Too bad for you. Because now, you don’t have the slightest idea who might have done this to you.

It wasn’t you. The memory is fresh, barely a day old, but you were on duty yesterday. Anyone could prove that. You’re not a sleepwalker, either. The date confirms you didn’t have any mental lapses. This memory belongs to someone else; somebody just planted it into your mind. You don’t have enough enemies to suspect anyone; maybe for the criminal it was more like putting a piece of garbage into a trash can. The murderer just put the unwanted memory into the first head they found. Whatever happens next only concerns you.

The air still stinks phantomlike of bright, purple blood. You gulp, trying to ignore it.

_ Why me? _ you ask. Maybe you address it to yourself, or whoever did this to you, or maybe the universe itself.

Whoever it is, there’s no answer.


	5. Chapter 5

The fight is over. There isn’t a single enemy soldier left aboard your little ship. It’s time to treat your wounded and to fall back into a safer region.

The victory didn’t come at a low price. The ship is barely holding together; there are way too few people who can still walk. The death toll must be extremely high. You’re just trying not to dwell on the thought that your crew as you knew it is gone forever.

You’re one of the lucky ones. You didn’t lose a lot of blood, and your injuries are relatively easy to treat. They will allow you to work a little more. You get a shot of a stimulant drug to make sure you won’t collapse from fatigue at your post.

It doesn’t mean you feel anything  _ near _ good in any regard. You only have time to make sure that the computer still can find the way home on its own, then you realise that the air smells wrong, making you dizzy. The air conditioning system needs a check but the computer’s resources are limited, so you decide to go and see for yourself if something is wrong. If you want something done properly, do it yourself, right?

You go around your section, scanning for signs of fire. It doesn’t take you long to find a door sealed by the automatic security system. You needn’t ask why. The door is so hot that the waves of heated air make it look blurry.

You wipe the sweat off your forehead and go to the nearest computer terminal. It’s molten. Before you can go check another one, you have to back away very quickly so that you don’t have to press against the searing hot

bulkhead to give way: those two are too busy with the injured young someone in their arms to pay attention to anything around them. You would make a good crunch.

_ (Around this point, Michael stopped and stared into space for a solid minute because he couldn’t remember the English word for “to know”. He grew so frustrated that he hit the table with his fist, or rather, tried but missed it and hit the typewriter instead. By the time he swore all he wanted and stuck a band-aid on the damaged finger, he’d completely forgotten what he needed the stubborn word for. He went back to writing, trying to forget the embarrassment, and he didn’t notice that the paragraph was split in two until it was too late.) _

A couple of minutes fade from your memory. You’re at another terminal, and the air has significantly cooled down, but you’re not sure if you turned on the fire extinguishers or vented the whole section into space. You remember considering both options before you blacked out, but that’s all.

You slowly realise you’re still in trouble. This is the closest to the normal temperature that you can get with your ship running  _ (read: limping) _ on half its usual energy, but you’re still sweating. Your uniform is soaked through! That’s called a fever, and you won’t make matters any better if you keep playing hero. You need to rest.

When you contact the medics, someone says they’re all busy but promises to come have a look at you the moment it becomes possible. 

You never really liked your quarters but you thank every deity you can think of because they’re so close right now. The door, the bed, and then—pure nothingness.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when you wake up very suddenly and in pain. It feels like your insides are turning into a pile of gears trying to click together. One of your eyes doesn’t want to open, and the other sees everything in red. You barely pay any attention to it, though, as you know this is the least of your problems.

You recall some sounds you’ve heard next to that sealed door. You thought they were only in your head, and the chances are that you were right. Now it’s more like they’re in your whole body. A system of cables and wires is growing inside it, and you hear  _ and _ feel them splinter your bones and dig their way through your muscles. The feeling is unique.

They must have infected you. Maybe it came with the first blow you received after the enemy boarded your ship, maybe it was the last one. It only takes a pinprick to deliver the virus, or whatever they call the evil essence of your enemy. You start browsing through the fading memories of the day, seeking the answer, but stop at the thought that knowing won’t bring you comfort.

Nothing will.

The others must shoot you on sight. You want to help them but you know your holster is empty.

The acute awareness of the pain and of your hopeless condition only mortifies you more as you realise that your body isn’t in your control anymore. You can’t call for help because your vocal cords won’t work. You can’t go look for a weapon to off yourself because your body is rigid and helpless, loaded with the unbearable weight of whatever has grown over you. As you try to reach for your combadge, the flash of pain nearly knocks you out. That was just one movement, and you can’t force yourself to make another one. Something within you clings to being alive, begging you for mercy.  _ It hurts. _

It hurts either way.

There are voices. Clear, cold, inanimate voices giving orders and transmitting information you’re unable to process. You wouldn’t say they’re putting you to sleep, those sounds are as far as possible from your idea of a lullaby; still, you feel your mind slip back into uneasy sleep, drifting away into the bliss of oblivion as the mechanical voices pulse in your brain. From the mixture of multichannel murmuring, one very true phrase seems to stand out. It is your last thought.

_ Resistance is futile. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Arthur Eddington was quite a real astronomer.  
Stephen Hawking—may his memory be eternal—hadn't indeed yet begun studying the black holes in 1953: he was only eleven.   
More than that, the term was only invented in the 1960s.  
This was inspired and written to https://mynoise.net/NoiseMachines/intergalacticSoundscapeGenerator.php

At first, Michael wasn't sure about this one. The idea had bubbled up in his head some time ago, but it needed research in areas he'd never studied before. Nevertheless, he fancied now how his job functioned as a perfect excuse to make a serious face and ask for "the latest—fifty-year-old, not more" astronomy articles. 

He also made time to write to one of his uncles who had something to do with physics, asking for help. Half the huge response he got consisted of multiple variations of "No, you're not related to sir Arthur, don't even dream of it." The rest wasn’t very helpful, nor did his research bring him anything useful. There were _ hints,_ but...

Michael decided that the genius destined to explore the mysterious objects Einstein had presumably predicted wasn't born yet. What did he know, though? Maybe he, or even she, was busy studying the weird gravity phenomena this very minute.

So Michael decided to stick to his idea. The research still did him good; _ I know that I know nothing _was something, too. He could try to keep the aura of mystery, and he knew how beautifully it could bring out the details. He reminded himself he wasn't a specialist and no one was going to eat him for following his imagination's lead. When the scientists find out more, his idea might not seem that wild.

If his job had taught him anything, it was the established fact that, at the end of the day, life always proved to be wilder than any dream; that was exactly why he'd given up writing fiction and returned to reporting.

It was a lovely, sunny day, warm, if windy. The traffic jam Michael's bus was stuck in gave him some more free time than he had intended. He pulled out the tiny hardcover notebook he always carried in his pocket (who knows when a journalist might need to write something down?), sucked his pencil, seeking the right first words, and then...

_ The more you learn about space, the more mysteries you come across— _

The more you learn about space, the more mysteries you come across. You find answers and yet more questions, and each step just takes you deeper into the endless maze of Creation.

With the telescopes so complex that they hardly resemble their few-lensed ancestors, with all the theoretical knowledge accumulated so far, there is always room for studying matters at hand. The beautiful, weird vortexes that consume length, mass and time are one of the things that _ require _ this approach. There is so much unclear about them that observing seems enough of a challenge. And that ends up being your mission. After all, you never back away from a challenge.

It goes well enough until you're finished and it's time to return. The vortex is much like a maelstrom in an ocean; it's only possible to outpower its pull until a certain point. You find yourself past that point, and you have all the time in the world to wonder if the mistake was yours or someone else's in the early stages of preparing your mission.

You struggle for some more time. It's a rule not to give up before you've tried everything. Some brilliant ideas come to you; none of them work. In the meantime, the idea of _ no return _has time to sink in.

Then you stop to listen, to_ feel _ what's going on around you. What will it be like when space and time become thin and elongate towards the immense gravity? Will you even notice how everything changes if _ everything _ changes, and you with it?

_ Are you sure it's not happening yet? _

No way to tell. You sit back to observe. From now on, all the truth you should worry about is whatever analogy of pen and paper you have in your hands. It's not your concern if anyone will ever be able to see or make use of your notes. 

Before you switch your attention to them, there's a hint of connection between them and your previous thought—that is, the question: what will happen?

Your ship, your notes, the molecules of your body. The spirit that makes those molecules something truly whole. Perhaps you're going to be brought into the maelstrom and out of it unharmed, like some lucky ancient sailors, or turned—_ transformed_—into stardust, or be reborn, or have nothing left of you whatsoever. 

You're here to find out, and it's not like you're going anywhere.

There's irony to it. After all, you wanted to solve this mystery so badly. Now you've been granted access to all the answers. It doesn't make you feel very happy, but it doesn't strike you as unfair, either. It seems like you left those emotions at the threshold before entering the eternity; there is no use for grudges when you're about to see the face of the Universe.

_ —there is no use for grudges when you're about to see the face of the Universe. _

That was it. Michael finished retyping the story, took the sheet of paper in his hands, and gave it an intense look. He wasn't sure about _the face_, but the rest was... well, good. He could be proud.

He was.

His heart overflowing with fondness, he touched the paper with his thumb. It wasn't _ touching the perfection_, of course, but—

_ Damn it. _

The fresh ink didn't appreciate the loving gesture, and the last couple of words smudged, staining the paper and his finger. The damage wasn't serious—the words were still legible—but forgetting about real properties of things around him was still unbecoming.

On the other hand... He skimmed through the story again and chuckled. Space and time elongating, eh? Well, he'd just elongated some of the lines of his imaginary world. It could as well be a hint at when or where the reality he'd described began to change.

In that case, he didn't mind at all.


	7. Chapter 7

If the transporting technology consists of disintegrating you and "beaming over" a stream of data, how can anyone be sure the copy doesn't differ from the original?

Are  _ you _ sure you exist because your parents gave you life and not because you appeared on the transporter pad this morning? Are all those medical scannings really enough? Do they go deep enough into the cellular structure to give  _ the  _ ultimate answer? They're still experimenting with the technology, aren't they?

_ (Michael felt he was soon going to wear a hole in the question mark key. On the other hand, he'd never seen it used as a literary device throughout a story.  _

_ The way this thought teased his vanity felt so extremely nice that he couldn't resist it.) _

If the data savings are that accurate and the technology developed for transporting sentient beings is really safe, how come no one has yet managed to improve the food replicators? Do the scientists enjoy drinking weak coffee and eating the weird mash they call vegetables? Well, sure, there is no actual source in creating food from scratch, but  _ is _ there one when the clever devices are constructing another Human from scratch? 

Hardly so; a data stream is a data stream, isn't it?

Which brings up another problem people can discuss but timidly: if we can copy people and save this kind of information, is there indeed no way to create more than one copy; delete the information before a copy can be created; mix two streams, malevolently or not; split a stream; tamper with the data being processed?

Are the laws enough? Didn't their very existence suggest there's a way to break them? What are the laws of society if the existence of life hardly complies with the laws of nature, probability, etc., and the behaviour of said life often disregards the laws of logic?

Wouldn't it be the greatest challenge to God possible, and thus an even more tempting idea, if people learned to Frankenstein other people at will, using just pieces of data and man-made devices?

And wouldn't He find a way to remind us of our place?


	8. Chapter 8

This is a perfectly normal job. According to the statistics, places like this are where most of the space megalopolises' dwellers slave during the numerous work shifts. General progress and increasing population allow corporations to build a twenty-four hour schedule from those shifts. That's profitable, and even though money has vanished, the idea of profit and extra profit seems to thrive.

If you think about it, it may occur to you that money has never been but a euphemism for something else: someone else's wish to squeeze your life energy from you and give you some treats in exchange, so that you are willing to do the job and don't go to waste too soon. When Humans built the pyramids, they didn't always make it to thirty. Now you're expected to live four times longer, but your pyramid is still with you. Be it made of paper notes or electronic devices, they pile up on your desk, demanding all of your attention. You wouldn't be able to look up from them, even if you wanted to.

Besides, if you did, nothing would change. No one would take heed of your interest, take off the lid of your box and show you any interest in  _ Homo sapiens _ in its natural habitat—

_ —in its what?!? _

Michael stared at the draft, frowning more and more. The idea wasn't bad, and Michael knew he could develop it into a decent space horror story (Aliens secretly watching and/or experimenting on people? An unknown government ruling the Earth? The meaninglessness of life in the scope of the universe? Really, there were so many possibilities.), but the way he'd put it into words was the only horrible thing about it so far.

He tore the page out and crumpled it mercilessly, fighting the urge to use the typewriter as a pillow. Enough writing for today.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for Marco Polo references.

Michael rather fancied the idea of creating the future merely by thinking of it, and he kept going back to it. It was not something his former friend had written, at least not to Michael's knowledge; it was bits and pieces of what Benny, according to various sources, had said to the fascist editor and, later, to his doctor. Someone dreaming, then telling about his dreams, someone else passing it on and on, Michael himself adding his own lines to the picture—the whole thing seemed like another weird tale of eerie beauty.

It made him think about what could be happening to the future Benny had invented as the story developed. The incomprehensibility of the idea only made it more appealing. Besides, he wasn't the first one to make up an absurd idea about dreams. It was growing little roots of associations, images, and phrases; the moment Michael's eyes fell on his bookshelf, he knew he'd found something.

He took his copy of Lewis Carroll, and wasn't surprised at all when the book opened on the very page he was thinking of.

Deep Space Nine is so quiet today. Ships dock irregularly, as if someone keeps forgetting to send them in. The incoming transmissions are spotty. The Promenade is half empty, even though the day is wide awake.

It happens. It's perfectly normal. The quiet here only means that things are going on somewhere else. Maybe there is a great battle out there; people don't want to entertain, they prefer sitting at home, keeping up with the latest news. Traders are forced to choose different routes, travellers think twice before leaving the harbour on a safe planet. 

It's good for security, bad for commerce, and scary for ordinary people wanting to live their simple lives. They feel so unsure that they keep looking out of their windows, maybe waiting for someone to appear, maybe checking if the eternal stars are still there, for what other constants does the space have?

Time is lazy, space is viscous. Minor events are like wandering thoughts that don't add up to make a whole picture.

_ The universe's attention is fixed on something else. _

The Emissary, perhaps? He's not on the station; and if there is _ the _key figure that catalyses the life here, it's him. No one would be surprised if told by the Prophets themselves that the station was only meant to be because of him. He gives it meaning. 

The question is, is it still needed when he's gone?

It would be an even better one if it had an answer. For now, all you know is, this seems more like a half-hearted attempt of imagination than an actual place.

Look out at all those stars behind your window. Do they make you feel more secure in such a sleepy place? A hollow shell hung up in uncertainty, not to mention the mysterious doorway to a place a couple of lives away.

Close your eyes now. _ This _is safe; you've known that since you were a child. Alone in their little rooms, late at night, children make up all sorts of fears, and then close their eyes and wrap themselves tighter in their little blankets.

The eternal night of outer space surrounds you. Close your eyes; feel the utter loneliness of a solipsist. It will feel better—

—_if _you assume the dream is yours.

The trick is to convince yourself that you're not going to disappear from the thinning, greying reality, even if all the others close their eyes, or open them, or fall asleep, or wake up. Everything will be the same; the station will still be Deep Space Nine and not Deep Space _ None. _This is the reality and not the Red King's dream.

Isn't it, Alice?

_ —Isn't it? _

Michael made a mistake by allowing the thought to occupy him the whole evening after he'd written that draft. As a result, he puzzled himself to sleep way later than usual. 

His dreams were all infinity mirrors and kaleidoscopes of innumerable worlds and bottomless pits of interstellar void. He dreamt of being dreamt of, and it repeated over and over until it made him stir half-awake and fall through into another dream. There, he lived in the past, and all he was used to was a future he envisioned. 

Travels and battles and great discoveries mixed in the melting pot of his mind, and the absolute truth he was telling others was but laughed at, leaving him with nothing but a scream tearing out from his chest.

It was so loud that it woke him up, even though he could swear he'd only heard it in his dream. Morning had not yet come; the light from the window was grey and dim. He rubbed his eyes and got up to get some water.

When he came back, he felt wide awake, and decided against going to bed again. His mind was racing; he wouldn't bet he was going to sleep any calmer. 

He got dressed—he would have to eventually. Turning on a lamp or two would speed up the process, but he was in no hurry. He also enjoyed the way the room looked, all grey and mysterious in the colours of night. 

Then, something brought him to his desk. He took the new draft and leaned against the window. The lines stood out clear enough in the pale moonlight to let him freshen up his memory of the text.

He didn't recall moving a finger, but a pencil had found its way into his fingers as well. He fiddled with it as he read, and corrected a couple of typos. The moment he tried to tuck it into his hair he realised that his dream would be a great complement to this sketch—maybe not similar to it, but they seemed like two sides of a lucky coin.

He didn't need to be told twice.

_ You are free— _

You are free, and happy, and you don't have a care in the entire world.

It's a blessing to be asleep, after all.

No earthly power binds your mind. You go wherever you want—no, you don't actually _ go_; you don't need to walk anymore, or cross the distance any other way. It's enough for you to think of a place to find yourself there.

You are farther and farther from where you started. Oh, the things you _ see_.

Your eyes have never been so clear, as well as the other senses; there are mixtures of all you can feel, and there is more, and they flow from and into one another in constant metamorphosis, and yet stay the same. The vistas around you are beyond words, like pure white light is beyond all and any colours and shades of the rainbow. You reach out to them, and as they grow closer, you don't understand (nor do you need to) if you're looking at infinite, bright worlds—or if they're all facets of the only world ever possible to exist and you're just looking into them, finally seeing everything the way it should be seen.

You have touched the other side of the world, and now you're back to tell everyone about it, now that it's revealed to you as well. You see _ both _ sides now, and oh, how simple it feels. You're granted the sight of the whole, of the world as it is. Has this ever happened to anyone else?

There's no knowing; there's no need to know. All that's important is the beauty of this, the living beauty that's pulsing and radiating—you're dissolving in it—but have you ever been anything other than a part of it? Or the whole of it? Or—

There is simply no other way to describe the heavenly creation, even to yourself, than _ pure joy_.

.

.

.

And there is truly nothing more cruel than waking up.

You have made it all the way down from Eden again, knowing better than ever you're not allowed to return. Your immortal soul is again trapped in an earthly prison. It only adds to your misery that this is no overstatement—you _ are _ in prison, and you know only too well how thick and _ real _those walls are.

(A spark of what you've seen and felt and dreamt and _ learned _is still alive in you, like a divine gift, but it's hidden, even from you, till the time comes.)

The walls feel like the stones they're made of are ready to bury you. The bars seem to cut off the air completely.

Everything is just the way it was before you fell asleep, but—how cruel! This is all so unlike your dreamworld, as if some unholy power snatched it away from where you could see it, and turned it into its opposite. You can't _ stand _ the despair this sight brings you—no one could. It's suffocating you; you genuinely feel like you're a plant dying without sunlight—there _ must _ be a way out of this! For the love of everything holy and kind and good still left on Earth—there can't _ not _be a way to dispel the dark around you!

A cry, a single cry of unbelievable power finds its way out of your chest, wrenching out towards the light of day and truth, ringing so loud under the arches of your vault that they cannot possibly hold it.

_ "In the name of God, listen to me!!" _

"—listen to me!"

Michael had heard it so clearly. He obeyed now and listened, but there was nothing more. The story had run out.

His thoughts came back to his dream, as if he had it in his hands, turning it and holding it up to his eyes to see the details. It held him mesmerised as his memory clicked the pieces together once again—

_ He squeezes his eyes shut and reaches out to the image in his mind so very carefully, yearning— _ dying_—to brush his fingertips against it— _

_ There's just a hint of touch— _

And it was gone. He didn't understand why, but he knew it was for good this time. The mystery was out of his grasp now, leaving him stranded in the reality he belonged to. 

Yet he knew it was more than a dream somehow. A gift—a hidden treasure—an ember of the glorious light he'd seen. There could be no mistake; he felt it so good, buried so deep in his chest, but still there. It was more than he could ask for.

He opened his eyes with a smile, and his eyes met the first sunbeam gently touching his face.


	10. Chapter 10

Karl returned the manuscript to him without a single comment. Knowing the man, it was an unheard-of compliment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NASA was founded in 1955.  
The 1950s in USA were very anti-Communist.  
Even if you think you don't know who Mr. Blair is, believe me you do.

Luther had been gone for some time, which was perfectly normal. Sometimes he would disappear without telling his friends where he was going or for how long. Michael still didn't know if the man was something like a senator or the head of the city's mafia, but a man who looked and talked and smoked like Luther couldn't be less than awfully busy at all times.

One Friday, Michael took the article his friend had asked for to work because he wanted an editor's opinion on some stylistic devices it used. Another reason was that he was going to see Karl after work, and could ask him to pass a copy to Luther. However, as he entered the cafe where they had so often met, he saw Luther himself—and not Karl. 

They shook hands, and the older man said casually, "He's not coming. I had a word with him and he says he has the flu. Would you mind my company?"

"Of course not." Michael sat down and took the article out. "Your order, sir. Did you  _ know  _ I'd have it with me?"

"Yes, I did. Thank you—may I have a look now? East is a tricky subject these days. I mean, I trust you, it's just that  _ if _ something is off, I wouldn't want anyone else to edit it and ruin the style. To save you the inconvenience, the dinner's on me."

Michael nodded and took a deep breath to gather some strength before he reached for his briefcase again. "I'd like to ask you a favour, too, then."

Even though Luther's eyes flicked on and on across the lines, the reading was taking him almost as long as it had with Michael's colleague. Michael felt rather flattered by the attention. The idea that someone else was paying for the food was heartwarming, too, and it served him badly: he almost choked on his second coffee when Luther suddenly gave him a  _ very  _ concerned look and said, "Are you sure the author is not a Communist?"

Michael saw his whole life flash before his eyes. "What?" he managed, his voice hoarse beyond comprehension.

"Well, I take it that these are based on someone else's work, and while they are rather—interesting, there are some hints I strongly dislike. They don't quite agree with my opinion of you, either. Therefore I'm asking for an explanation, which I'm sure you can provide me with."

Michael saw now that the tricky "Eastern" article was lying where he'd sheepishly put his stories. "Oh. It explains a lot. Yes, it's the black writer Karl told me about before your—trip. As for your question... I honestly don't know. I didn't see anything  _ red  _ in that novel. There are details that allow some interpretation, but... A paranoid enough reader can see hammer and sickle hints in a book about agriculture, you know?"

Luther laughed. "I do know such people."

"Would it be blasphemous to say that I don't believe in the red threat? As a journalist, I know how those myths are made. It's like working with advertisements. Once you know those tricks, they don't work for you anymore."

"I agree, friend. But I've also known people to act on fresh-in myths as if they were a sudden revelation. That's what concerns me. Anyway," Luther's tone suddenly changed, "let's leave that to Mr. Blair, and to God what is God's." He held up the pack of stories a little. "Might I say I appreciate a flight of fancy? Yours is a spectacular one! Are you one of those optimists who say we're going to go to the Moon soon enough?"

Michael grinned. "If a flight of fancy can take you there, yes."

"If so, I rest assured we're almost there."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feminism in the 1950s was lying low. The second wave wasn't due in ten years. I couldn't find anything specific about what feminists were up to back then, even though I went as deep as papers by Leila Rupp. So I made up what I could, basing it on some standard ways of protesting.  
Also, the illegal activities she might be up to include not only what is mentioned directly, but also distributing (and, according to some sources, teaching about) contraception. A legal means was yet to be invented.  
All the details of a nurse's life are extracted from articles I've read.  
When I asked my mother if she thought a 1950s girl could borrow her boyfriend's shirt, she said the girl should be nuts. I think it's safe to assume she's not that far from being right.

Hinting to Becca that he had some stories he'd like her to have a look at was most unsettling. Not that he expected her to laugh at him; in fact, he had no idea how she would react. They had been exchanging their opinions on literature, cautiously or openly, since—since what, their first words to each other? Since the glorious day she'd sat down next to him in a bus, and he'd asked if such a beautiful girl would allow him to invite her to have a cup of coffee together, and the response had been, "Bin weder Fräulein weder schön"?

_ Not lovely, nor the lady you detected, _

_ I can go home, unprotected. _

"I know Goethe, too," he'd said.

"Good for you," the charming then-stranger replied coldly. 

As far as he was aware, neither of them now regretted that he'd bothered her into commanding him to leave her alone now _ and _ pick her up at her parents' home much later that week. And yes, they had indeed discussed the classical literature of her homeland throughout their first date, not without tenderness. But for heaven's sake, if she'd had "private criticism" of said classics, she could now have a lot to say about—_this _.

"Is it time to beg for mercy yet?" he muttered, trying to steal a look at the manuscript to see how much she had left.

"I don't think so," Becca replied as she kept reading. "See? There's more."

He let out an exaggerated sigh and picked up his coffee, glancing at her over the cup. She smiled upon hearing him and patted his shoulder.

Becca took pains going through her reading, he could see that. She would frown now and purse her lips then, just a little, her eyes moving further and further over the lines. At some point, she shifted in her seat and crossed her legs; the hem of her skirt brushed his knee. He held his breath, forgetting about his worries instantly. Why, he wasn't sure he could recall his name when she was next to him!

She did notice his gaze upon her, though, and put her head on his shoulder, as if just for comfort. As he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and touched her temple with his fingertips—the lightest caress—he caught a glimpse of a smile dawning on her lips. 

He smiled back. She was a beautiful picture, and the frame was beautiful, too, that being a shirt too big for her, covering her shoulders, its collar held together by a cardigan clip. The buttons were on the wrong side, and he could still smell his cologne from the checkered cloth.

His thoughts wandered off as far as modesty would allow. As he was about to make a mental note to compliment how she'd matched her earrings to the bracelet he'd given her, he realised she'd stopped turning the pages.

"So?" he tried.

"Hm?" She raised her eyes.

"Any opinion?" He nodded at the manuscript.

She gave him a sly look. "Opinion? Well—I admire your cautiousness. When _ I _ have to tell you something, it's that I'd rather shoot myself than become a _ normal _ housewife, cooking and cleaning and washing for the rest of my life. Or that my friends and I are not going to stop at some stupid laws if we want to teach other girls how to make their lives better. And when _ you _ have something to confess, it's that you secretly read unpublished utopian novels and turn them into dystopian short stories. Do you really have no bigger flaws? You're not even a serial killer or something?"

He stared at her, half nervous, half amused. "That was very conclusive, thank you, but what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh. Well. I'm not saying I didn't like it—I'll tell you more when it's settled in my head a bit. Now all I can think of is, some of these are the kind of thing you should read in broad daylight."

"If you're afraid of the dark, I can walk you home." Michael laughed.

"I've been expecting you to." She gave him another sly look. "Now, what about _ my _ question?"

"I'm not a killer, sorry. I'm not even sure I killed anyone at war. I was a reporter then, too—I mean, I saw things there, but I didn't take them with me."

"Ah, so. Where _ else _ did you see things?" She looked back at the text.

He knew what she was looking at. "Jail? Well, do you think a journalist can go without firsthand experience in some areas?"

"Sure he can't. I just love it when I take an _ educated _ guess and it works." She folded the pages and handed them to him. "Before you ask, yes. Been there, too. The government just hates it for some reason when you handcuff yourself to fences, shouting and demanding human rights."

"You don't seem to do that a lot lately," he teased.

"Well, of course not! They barely pay me at the hospital—" She seemed like she wanted to bite her tongue, but it was too late, so she sat up and continued. "They nearly kicked me out when I wore trousers one day, and the matron made me change into something else before I was _ allowed _ to work. Imagine what would happen if I failed to show up due to a _ minor disagreement _ with the police!"

"Poor you, they must be terrible. I don't know where you get the patience for them."

"My patience wears thin sometimes," she assured him. "Unrelated: it's getting late. Shall we?"

He helped her into her jacket, then slipped his coat on and checked the little box in the pocket. Thinking about it made him so excited he almost forgot to take his manuscript with him. It barely mattered to him now; life went on.


End file.
